


our tainted history is playing on repeat

by VolxdoSioda



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Canon? What Canon?, Fix-It, Gen, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 13:37:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16745011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VolxdoSioda/pseuds/VolxdoSioda
Summary: When Altair had first brought him in, Malik hadn’t known what to think.





	our tainted history is playing on repeat

When Altair had first brought him in, Malik hadn’t known what to think. 

 

Rare as it was for Desmond to be near Jerusalem anymore, it was far rarer that the younger Assassin needed to be brought in as he was, slumped in Altair’s arms like a babe. Malik could count on his single hand the amount of times it had happened before, and still have at least four fingers left over. Today would mark the second occasion, and much like the first, distant appearances gave him nothing to go off of. Not until he got closer, and saw the clench of Altair’s jaw, and the amount of blood soaking through Desmond’s sweatshirt.

 

“I found him outside the city gates,” Altair says as he strips Desmond down. Malik doesn’t wait to be told what the damage is, instead hurrying outside to the well for a basin of water and towel before going around the counter to fetch his stitching supplies. “The guards were refusing to let him through.”

 

It goes unsaid that Altair would have dealt with  _ that.  _ Malik grimaces at the sight of the great gash along Desmond’s side, and he quickly wets one of the cloths, wringing it out before pressing it to the wound. That Desmond doesn’t so much as stir over the treatment says much of his condition.

 

“Where are you heading next?” Malik asks as he threads the needle and starts the process of stitching Desmond’s wounds shut. 

 

Altair hesitates. “I was heading back to Acre when I found him.”

 

“Then go. I will see our brother safe and recovered.”

 

“My thanks. Safety and peace to you, Malik.”

 

“Your presence here deprives me of both.” He ignores the small smile that gets him, and then Altair is heading back the way he came, leaving Malik crouched over their youngest, frowning over the damage.

 

A simple scuffle with the guards wouldn’t cause so much harm. Nor would it put the black bags beneath his eyes there. No, what he’s likely looking at is Desmond pushing himself too far, leaping between times, desperately trying to parry Juno’s every move and keep his brothers and sisters safe by changing the past to help the future. Malik is still grateful to their youngest brother for the hard work he’s putting in, but not so grateful as to condone this type of recklessness. And he knows Altair would back him up on that, were he here now. 

 

He stitches what needs stitching, cleans the blood and grime from Desmond’s wounds, and then drags him over to the pillows in the corner, where the brothers go to collect themselves before setting off for their missions. He drapes a spare blanket around the young man’s shoulders before gathering up basin and rags and taking them out to be cleaned and hung on the line to dry.

 

Outside, the wind has kicked up, and dark clouds begin to swarm over the sky, blocking out the sun’s rays. There will be a storm soon, Malik thinks, and then finds himself grateful that hypothermia is not yet  _ another  _ issue he’s been left to deal with in concern to Desmond.

 

He settles in behind the desk once more with ledger and quill, and some time later when the sky grows too dark, a candle to keep writing by. Over the course of the next several hours a few of their number enter the bureau, to either hand in reports or merely for a place to lie low and rest. None of them disturb Desmond, for which Malik is grateful. Then again, many in their order understand what it looks like to be run hard and ragged after a long series of missions, and several of Jerusalem's’ more common brothers have seen Desmond before enough to know he is one of theirs. 

 

They all leave eventually however, wishing Malik safety and peace as they go, to which Malik nods in turn and bids them the same. Desmond sleeps on, draped over one of the pillows, the lines of his face barely visible in the low light. Thunder eventually rumbles overhead as the storm breaks at last, and the sound of rain hitting the rooftop begins to filter through. It’s a pleasant backdrop, which in combination with the quiet company and the ease of his work, makes everything go much smoother. 

 

Malik wanders outside briefly for a look at the sky, and also for a drink of water. When he returns, it’s to find Desmond blinking tired eyes awake, and trying to sit up. He flinches at the sharp sting that is undoubtedly coming from the gash on his side, but doesn’t do more than hover a hand over it as he looks around. “Malik? Altair?”

 

“And at last, the sleeping beauty awakens,” Malik returns by way of greeting, stepping closer. “You have Altair to thank for your survival, for all that he hauled you in here like a sack of flour.”

 

Desmond nods, though his fingers still linger over the wound. “And you to thank for these, I’d wager.”

 

“You would wager correctly,” Malik says, and kneels down to smack Desmond’s hand away. “Don’t go getting too comfortable. You’ve been running yourself ragged again, just like a novice. Were it not for Altair heading to Acre, you would be dead now, cut down by some guard at the gate. Tell me, is that how you would have your story be written? The man who has turned the fates of so many around, cut down by a common guard?”

 

Desmond grimaces, rubbing one hand over his face. “I just got overconfident, that’s all. It won’t happen again.”

 

“Except I know you boy, and I know overconfidence has never been your particular sin of choice. Altair? Perhaps. Once again you have overlooked your own health for the sake of others, and now here we are. One would think you would learn, after the first few times you collapsed on our doorstep.”

 

Because he doubts he is the only bureau Desmond has found refuge in like this. Doubts Altair is the only ancestor who has pulled him to safety’s edge again and again, hidden him away from Templars and guards and gods alike. 

 

Desmond scowls, shaking his head. “Juno isn’t going to wait around until I can get some beauty sleep--”

 

“So you would run yourself down to bedrock then?” Malik snaps. “Deprive yourself of strength, of rest, and suffer not being able to protect yourself when the time comes? If Juno were to arrive in a flash of fire right this moment, could you stop her?”

 

“I…” Desmond hesitates, clearly wanting to bluff, but respecting Malik too much to do so. “No,” he admits at last, and it comes out like a knife being pulled from the back. “No, I couldn’t.”

 

“It’s fine to want to protect those you love,” Malik says. “It’s less fine to destroy yourself doing so. Hold to the values of the brotherhood, to our creed and tenants, but do not sacrifice yourself over nothing. Our fight is not over yet, and likely won’t be over for some time. We need you, Desmond Miles. And you’re far too old to be playing the part of the novice.”

 

“Altair was older than me when he screwed up,” Desmond grumbles.

 

“Yes, and if you’ll recall, I dragged  _ him  _ for his incompetence as well. It seems no matter how far in time we go, I will always be made to deal with one of you novices.”

 

His lips twitch up a bit at that. “Then this novice will take his leave.”

 

“Your clothes are there.” Freshly washed, because bloodstains were a mess without having to fight to get rid of them. “Do not make this mistake again, Desmond. Next time there might not be one of us around to save you.”

 

“I know.” Desmond rubs a hand down his face. “Shaun told me the same thing this morning.”

 

“Shaun?”

 

“Your descendant. He… sounds similar to you.”

 

Malik throws his hand up. “So you have two of us in your ear, warning you about your folly, and still you ignore us? Truly, you are of Altair’s line. Out with you, novice!”

 

“Safety and peace to you, Malik.” He tucks his hood up, and scrambles up the wall, and out of the rooftop, leaving nothing behind but the silence of the bureau and a few ruffled pillows and a blanket.

 

“Hmph. Your presence here will deliver us both. Safety and peace to you, Desmond Miles.”


End file.
